


Three Years Of Solitude

by dustyfluorescent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:40:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyfluorescent/pseuds/dustyfluorescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows that Sherlock is coming back in three years. All he needs to do is wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Years Of Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall.
> 
> Title obviously inspired by the amazing Gabriel García Márquez. The book One Hundred Years Of Solitude has pretty much nothing at all to do with this fic.
> 
> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=81925269#t81925269) at Sherlock BBC Kink Meme. And yes, there _should_ probably be a trigger warning here somewhere...

The cemeteries of London are full of ghosts. They are of what used to be this land. John Watson can't bring himself to care, because the ghost that is his is still out there, somewhere, and he just wants to find him again.

"See you, John," Sherlock says, his voice coloured with sadness that is worryingly uncharacteristic to him, and John can tell that he's looking at him. He can feel the stare crawling under his skin, even though Sherlock is so far away. Then Sherlock just throws the phone away, just like that, without even looking. He's doing this well, this faking his own death thing. But he's apparently also figured out that John knows, or is at least guessing something, so he says _see you_ instead of something else, and then it starts.

It never ends.

John stands there, looking at the tall hospital building he's so familiar with, the dark figure he'd recognise anywere, painted like a silhouette against the light grey London sky, and for a second, he doesn't want to believe it's actually happening. This is not me, he tells himself. I'm not here right now.

The next thing John sees is Sherlock jumping off the roof, and he has no idea how Sherlock has planned to survive that. The only thing that keeps him from doing something desperate, something unimaginable, he doesn't even really know what, is Molly, the words she spoke, the words he isn't likely to ever forget. _He'll be fine, you'll see_. It all makes sense now. The conversation he had overheard, standing in the stairway, something (an idea, a tingling sensation, a foreshadow, maybe) stopping him from entering. Mycroft had left the flat without sparing John so much as a glance. _I know what I'm talking about. We don't have a choice._ And then just _I promise you. Three years. I'll be back. But I need your help_. So he just stares, with huge eyes, as Sherlock's body smashes against the asphalt (only it isn't Sherlock, can't be him, because he won't die, not really).

John doesn't go to him. He looks at what happens from where he stands, and then he walks away. He feels oddly calm. He doesn't need to be there, now, because he believes in Sherlock. He believes in what Sherlock can do.

***

He doesn't want anybody to know. They would think he's lost his mind.

It's not really a surprise that everything feels empty without Sherlock around. John has grown so used to his presence that without him around, he can't help but find the world around him dull. But he had better get used to it. After all, he has three years left to wait, before it's finally over.

The funeral is like a dream. Nobody talks to him, nobody really even looks at him, not even Mycroft. They all keep their distance, as if giving him space to mourn. They don't know he knows, he realises; Mycroft has no idea. He won't say anything. He's sure they all have their reasons for not telling him. He's sure, but he's still angry.

Every morning, John tells himsef he can do this. Every day, he promises himself that he will pull through, for Sherlock's sake, so that he can tell John himself what all of this is about, when he comes back. Every night John thinks about the fact that Sherlock is still living and breathing, still somewhere, waiting for the moment when he can be alive again, and it helps him fall asleep.

John knows he can make it. It's not so bad. He's had bad times in his life, and when he really thinks about it, compared to all of that, this is nothing. And yet, he can't bring himself to say he's been through worse. Not really.

Days go by very slowly.

***

On the very last day of the three years, John stops living and starts waiting.

It is only natural for him to do so. He is going to get Sherlock back, now, after so long, after an eternity. This time without him, now that John looks back, seems like a mistake. A knot in time, a weird quirk that was never supposed to happen, and maybe it never really happened at all, but he can remember it, because he was in the middle of it all. Any day now, he thinks to himself. Any day now Sherlock will be back, and he's going to feel whole again; loved, important, worthwhile. Maybe he can feel his breath going freely. Maybe he can sleep at night. Maybe he can be the man he used to be. The good man, the brave one, the one who mattered, who made a difference. John isn't sure what he's waiting for to happen, but it will be good, or better than what he has now, at least. Sherlock has saved him once, and he will save him again. John can't think of anything he wants right now, except for his best friend back. So he waits. Nothing else matters.

And then it's been three years exactly. The day passes. Sherlock doesn't come back. John doesn't feel like eating. Any day now.

A week passes. Sherlock doesn't come back. John can't sleep properly anymore. He doesn't care. Any day now.

And then, suddenly, it's two weeks, and Sherlock hasn't come back. John doesn't even want to think about leaving the house. Not that he'd be strong enough, in the state he's in. Greg comes to see him and forces him to eat something. The food only makes him feel sick. He isn't hungry. It's been three years, John, Greg says. You need to move on. John doesn't listen. Greg doesn't understand. Greg doesn't know how things are.

When Sherlock is three weeks late, John starts to think that maybe something is wrong. He can't get out of his bed anymore, or so it feels. Maybe he could, but he doesn't even really want to try. He's a doctor, so he vaguely realises that this is bad, and that he needs to do something, but even his thoughts are slow and clumsy, tripping over their own feet.

***

Days go by, and John doesn't even notice. He stops paying attention to anything happening around him, and Sherlock turns into his only thought.

It's been long enough for John to lose track of time, when he doesn't know the difference between an hour and a day. John is lying in his bed, head full of foggy one-track thoughts and suppressed fear and just _Sherlock_ , when he slowly realises that something is different. He blinks his eyes to focus his gaze, and notices Mycroft leaning against his doorframe with a worried expression on his face. Mycroft doesn't look like that too often. Frankly, it's quite intimidating.

"John," Mycroft says gently. "You have to let go."

John finds out that speaking, after being quiet for a very long time, is not exactly effortless. His mouth is dry, his throat is sore, and words don't come easy, as if he's forgotten how this is done. He doesn't care. This is important.

"He's coming back," he says. "You know he is."

"John."

"He said three years."

"Oh, God." Mycroft covers his face with his hands, and something about him just falls apart, right there, in front of John's weary eyes. He's never seen Mycroft like this, and it's frightening. "Oh, God, you knew."

"Yes, I knew. What?"

"John. Sherlock is dead. Has been for three years now. We failed. It's over."

"That's not true."

And yet, he knows it is.

He gets up too quickly (and the room punishes him for it by not staying still for a second), and realises that he's laughing like a maniac, just laughing and gasping for breath. He's hiding behind his face, taking a step towars Mycroft, and that one step is somehow closer to begging mercy than anything else he has ever done. He is thinking about the last time he felt even remotely like this. And even then, drugged and locked up by the one person he would always trust, he wasn't quite this hopeless, this vulnerable, this absolutely terrified, this certain that _he isn't going to live past this hour_. Back then, he had thought about Sherlock, he had trusted him to save him. He had understood that Sherlock hadn't even thought about what it would do to him, simply hadn't realised how much it would hurt him, and John had still trusted him after that, and always.

It's time to stop believing in Sherlock Holmes, he realises. That is long overdue.

"You are a fucking liar, Mycroft."

And then he can't breathe anymore, can't move; his vision goes black, and for the very first and very last time in his life, John Watson faints.

***

After that, things get complicated. Sherlock is dead, and as for John, every inhale feels like another moment spent on Earth completely out of turn, and nobody understands what's happened to him. He might have pretended he was grieving three years ago, but until now, he has clearly had no idea what grief like this would really do to him. He is absolutely paralysed, struggling to stay alive, and nothing has ever felt like this before.

He locks himself away from everyone else. He doesn't want them to know, he doesn't want them to try and understand. He can't believe this is where he's ended up. Everything about this is a mistake. His best friend is dead, and it has taken him three years to find out.

His leg is back to what it was after the war (before meeting Sherlock is what he means, but what he's trying very hard not to say). It's a memory, a ghost, a gunhead pressed against his skin between his shoulderblades, and has been that ever since he got shot; a sign that something is missing, that something isn't right. The limp is back, and it's worse than it's ever been before. The nightmares come back - of the war, of the pool, of the eternal hours of feeling useless, feeling like your life is over. And of the fall. Of the dead man on the pavement, blood all over, and him just walking away, because he believes in Sherlock Holmes. John couldn't possibly feel any more guilty about that. Whether it really matters or not is completely irrelevant.

He misses the battlefield on the streets of London. The one that Sherlock had brought to his attention; the one that had so often made him feel like he might want to live another day.

John can't bring himself to visit the grave for a long time. It's somehow very difficult to comprehend that the actual corpse of Sherlock Holmes really is there, buried underground, and has been for years. _I don't know this reality_ , he tells himself every day, _and I need for it to not be true_.

The cemeteries of London are full of ghosts. They are of what used to be this land. John Watson can feel them in every breath he takes, as he rests his hand on his friend's gravestone. It's three years old, and it's telling the truth.

John now understands, why Sherlock didn't want him to know.


End file.
